A Requiem for Good Men
by paganpunk2
Summary: Dick is left reeling in the face of a police tragedy. He goes to Bruce for help, but sometimes the best salve for the soul is the one you make yourself. T for language and discussion of OC deaths.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This will be a three-shot dealing with Dick and Bruce in the aftermath of a police tragedy. This first chapter will be the heaviest one in terms of emotions. Happy reading!**

* * *

"Anyway, Lucius, I don't see why-"

"Mr. Wayne?" the intercom broke in. Bruce glared at it, then stabbed the reply button so hard that the last joint of his finger popped.

"I'm in a meeting, Constance," he half-growled.

"I know, sir, but I thought you'd want to know that your son's here."

That gave him pause. Damian was at school, and if he was going to sneak out the last place he would come was Wayne Enterprises. Tim had classes all day, and wasn't the sort to cut them just to swing by for a visit. Jason...the idea of Jason showing up in his lobby was outright ridiculous. Dick, he knew, was scheduled to be on shift across the river. "...Which one?" he asked slowly, replying to Lucius' curious look with a troubled glance.

"It's me," his eldest's voice came through. "I'm sorry, Connie told me you were busy, but...do you have a minute?"

There was a husky note that he loathed underlining the question. Years of experience had taught him that that sound meant tears were being brutally repressed, and the prospect was just as painful now as it had been when his boy was still small enough to curl up in his lap. Adding that to his sudden arrival at the office and insistence on seeing him, Bruce deduced that something was very wrong. "Give me a second," he agreed, and disconnected. "Lucius-"

"You don't have to say a word," he stood and began to gather his papers. "This decision can wait a while longer without negative consequences, but I could tell as well as you that whatever Dick's got going on can't. I'll email you about reconvening next week. In the meantime, here's hoping it's nothing too serious."

"Yeah, no shit." The dread in the pit of his stomach suggested something else, but he tried to hope around it. "Send him in, would you?"

"You bet."

He stared at the door as it closed behind the CFO. There was a pause – Alfred's etiquette indoctrination had no doubt forced Dick to exchange a few pleasantries – and then it opened again. "Hey, kiddo," he greeted, slipping into his old pet names easily.

"Hey...I'm sorry," Dick sighed as he slumped into Lucius' vacated chair and tilted his head back. "I just...I couldn't wait."

"It's okay. What's going on? I thought you were supposed to be at work right now?"

"Well..." His voice cracked. "I...I was."

Bruce hesitated. There were a few reasons he could come up with that would explain why his son was both not on patrol and extremely upset, but he found them all hard to believe. It couldn't be something with the family; he would have been the first person the authorities called for anything of that nature, not Dick. The idea of his son's having been written up or suspended for something done in the field was unimaginable, and he wasn't one to buck authority in the bullpen, either. Given that, a firing seemed to be outside the realm of possibility. The injury or death of a fellow officer would explain his fragile state, he supposed, but if that was the case why had whoever informed him of the incident allowed him to come to Gotham by himself? "Okay," he pressed gently, "so you were supposed to be on duty right now, but you aren't."

"Right. I...ah, _fuck_, Bruce, I know it's not my fault, but jesus..." Crossing his arms, the younger man took a deep, watery breath. "...I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," he ordered, now up and moving around the desk. Occupying the chair beside his agonizing child, he leaned forward. "Just tell me what happened. It's okay."

A short sob rang out. One slender hand untangled itself and rose to keep further cries contained, a ring flashing on the middle finger as it shook. It didn't have to be still for Bruce to know that it was the recognition Dick had been given for graduating at the top of his police academy class. That silver circle was the first piece of civilian gear that he put on after a patrol and the last piece he took off right before one, and seeing it trembling now caused a lump to form in the billionaire's throat. "...Dick-"

"Have you watched the news this afternoon?"

"No," he shook his head. "Why, what did I miss?"

"There, ah..." He sniffled. "There was a...a..." Even though his head was still parallel to the floor, Bruce could see his eyes screwing themselves shut. "Someone killed two guys from my precinct this morning," came out hoarsely. "Just...mowed them down."

"Oh..." That certainly explained why he was so out-of-sorts, but it didn't answer the question of who had thought him stable enough to drive safely. Sensing that this was not the right time to launch into an investigation, he tried instead to gauge the level of Dick's involvement. "...People you knew?"

"Yeah," a hollow whisper confirmed. "People I knew. Good cops. Good men. I went to school with one of them, the academy, I mean. Josh. He was only...only a couple of years older than me. Wally's age."

"...I'm sorry, chum," he grimaced, gripping his shoulder. "I'm sorry to see good men lose their lives in the line of duty, and I'm sorry that they were men you knew." He was sorry, but at the same time he couldn't help but feel a cruel gratitude for the fact that it had been other people's children who had fallen. "I'm sorry."

Dick straightened finally, swiping at his eyes. "...It gets worse," he moaned. "I didn't think that was possible when I first heard that there were two men down, but...then I found out that they were dead, and...Josh...fuck, Josh, I'm sorry, man..."

"I don't understand, son," Bruce murmured, scooting up until their knees brushed. "It doesn't sound like you could have done anything to help him, or the other officer either."

"Don't you see, Bruce? _I _was supposed to be on patrol this morning." He gave him a sick grin. "Me. Not...not Josh. This was supposed...supposed to be his day off..." Then he buried his face in his hands, his back hitching under the billionaire's hand as he began to cry in earnest.

"Dick..." Feeling his own eyes growing hot, Bruce pulled the younger man into the best embrace he could manage in their respective positions. "It's not your fault, Dicky-bird," he swore against his ear. "It's not your fault."

"I kn-know, but...if I had _known_..."

"Hush. Just hush."

"It was his day off today, b-b-but...but he said he had a, a family thing this weekend, and he needed tomorrow instead, so I was gonna just commute from the house in the morning, you know? He asked to...to switch...said he'd work today if I did Saturday...and I said yes. I said _yes,_ and now he's _dead_!"

"Nooo. No, baby. It's not your fault." Bruce had imagined many awful scenarios in the three years since his son had first told him he wanted to work for justice on the streets both day and night, but nothing quite like this had ever crossed his mind. At a loss, he simply held him and muttered helpless assurances. "...It's not your fault. You couldn't have known..."

For a long time they sat like that, Dick crying for his lost brothers in uniform, Bruce in turn crying for Dick. Eventually the younger of the pair pulled away, now dabbing rather than pawing at his raw, reddened cheeks. "If I had been the one out there today," he said quietly, "things might have been different."

"Thank god you _weren't_ the one out there today," the billionaire replied with a fervency he rarely felt. Without having any details, he could only imagine what sort of hellstorm could have caught two trained men off-guard.

"No, I...I know that street better than Josh did. It's been part of my beat since I joined the precinct, but they've bounced him around a few times. The guy who did it...the guy who killed him...it was just supposed to be a domestic violence thing. It could have been so easy, but...but they're dead. I'm familiar with the person they arrested for...for killing them...and if it had been me instead of him...well...he's always been twitchy, you know? The...the shooter. Has some issues. Not a bad person, per se, just...issues. If I'd been there...maybe no one would have gotten hurt. Maybe it would have been different."

Bruce shook his head, but he didn't dare dive into the viper's nest that he suspected his son's psyche was at this moment. "How did you even hear all of this?" he asked instead. "If you weren't on duty, then how?"

"Some of it was on the news, but...well, you know me. I knew before that."

"Your scanner?"

"My scanner. I was in the nest, wrapping up a file from last night, and I just had it on for noise. I heard them be dispatched, I heard them acknowledge...I heard when the double-ought came over." He coughed. "After they couldn't raise them, they sent out a third unit. That double-ought...god, I hate the sound of that code."

Bruce could commiserate. He had heard his fair share of 'officer down' codes come over the Gotham police band, and it never failed to raise the hair on the back of his neck. To hear it and know exactly which of your co-workers was down, far away and somewhere that you couldn't get to them to help...he'd been in enough similar situations to know how terrible that felt. "Have you talked to anyone from the precinct since then?"

"Couple people. Everyone's...everyone's a mess. My sergeant knew that...that Josh and I had switched...so I got called right away. Told me I wasn't allowed to drive anywhere, and asked if I wanted a ride to the precinct. They were already bringing in counselors, you know? He really wanted me to come in for that, and I'm probably gonna catch hell for saying no, but...I told him I had my own counselor across the river." A choked laugh escaped his lips. "Told him I could get in any time."

"Of course you can. But Dick...how did you get here? Please tell me you didn't drive. I don't want to have to call you a goddamn idiot at this exact moment."

"I took a cab. It cost me a hundred bucks – early rush hour, you know – but...it was better than calling Alfred to come pick me up, waiting an extra ninety minutes, and then freaking him out by not wanting to say anything. I didn't want to talk to anyone else but you first. I just...I needed _you_."

"It's okay, chum. I'm glad you came, and I'm even more glad that you didn't do something stupid like try to drive yourself. As for everything else...Dick, I'm so sorry. I know it hurts, and I know you're blaming yourself a bit, but you've got to believe me that none of this is your fault."

"I _know_, but...I guess I'm not ready to accept that I know. If anything had been different, Bruce, _anything_, then maybe..." He sighed. "I'm sorry. I've been going in cycles. I cried a little right after I talked to my sergeant, then I was kind of okay in the cab...I'm kind of okay right now, but it's going to come back. I already feel it building again."

"No one in their right mind would expect you to cry once or twice and then be past this. It's okay. Listen," he picked up his hand, "you and I are going to go home now. I know it's early," he cut off his protest, "but I don't care. We're going to go home, and you can just cycle as much and as often as you need to this weekend. If you want to tell the others, you can, or you can keep the details to yourself for now. They'll understand. But I'll stay in tonight either way, just in case you need me."

"I have to...to go to work tomorrow. They'll bust down my apartment door if I don't show up, and god only knows what they'll do when they don't find me there."

"Then I'll take you, and I'll pick you up when you're done. You're off Sunday, right?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Then you can come home again Saturday night and stay through Monday morning. Alfred can take you across the river after he drops me off here Monday morning, if you want, or he can just take you to work and bring you back to the house afterward. You don't have to decide that right now; we can cross that bridge when we come to it." Reaching out, he brushed a hand over Dick's disheveled hair and cupped the back of his head. "Okay?"

"...Okay," he nodded. "But...Bludhaven..."

"I'll talk to Tim. If he can stand to take Damian with him tonight, I'll ask them to do a short Gotham round and then swing over next door. Don't worry about Bludhaven, we'll cover it."

"But...Bruce, if you send them in my place and...and something happens..." His eyes were wide, half-panicked at the idea that the tragedy that had befallen his fellow officers might repeat with one of his brothers.

"First off, what happened this morning _wasn't your fault_," Bruce stressed. "Second, that's not going to happen. Just relax, Dick. They'll be fine so long as they don't tear each other's throats out. It's okay."

"...It doesn't feel okay."

"I know." He exhaled heavily. "I know. But I also have an idea about what might make you feel a little better, if only temporarily."

"I didn't know you had a time machine we could use to go back and stop this day from happening."

"I don't. But I _do_ have an Alfred, and Alfred has an oven. I also have inside information that he was planning to bake a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies this morning because he knew you were coming over for the weekend."

Dick closed his eyes with a groan. "...Alfred's cookies shouldn't be able to make me feel better about this, even in the short-term. I know they _will_, but...it seems wrong."

"It seems like witchcraft, is what it seems like. But it works, and that's what matters."

"Yeah..."

"...C'mon, chum. Let's get you home, get a cookie in your hand, and go from there. Okay?"

He nodded. "Okay. Let's...let's do that."

"That's my boy. I'll get my jacket."

"Sure."

They met at the door, and for a moment Bruce could do nothing but lose himself in his son's pain-dark gaze. "...Dick?" he said finally.

He sniffed. "Yeah?"

"It's going to be okay. Trust me."

"...I do trust you, Bruce. More than I trust myself, even."

"Then you know I'm right."

Dick sighed and leaned into him again. "...I know," he breathed. "It's just so hard to see right now. That's why I came to you first, is because you've...you've always shown me the way." He pulled back. "Right now I'd just like to see the way home, though," he said, a sad smile teasing around the corners of his mouth.

"That's a road I think I can probably manage to find," the billionaire said, wrapping his arm around his shoulders and leading him from the room. _So long as you're here to travel it with me,_ he thought gratefully as the portal to his darkened office shut behind them, _the road to home is a path I'll never tire of taking._


	2. Chapter 2

Dick wasn't able to keep what was bothering him from the rest of the family for long, and ended up apprising them of the details before Tim and Damian left on a grudging dual patrol. Friday night passed fitfully, half of it spent dozing in one of the cave's chairs while Bruce worked on a file and the remainder trickling away as he lay sleeplessly in his childhood bed. The only consolation the evening held for him was that his brothers came home safe.

On Saturday he returned to Bludhaven for his shift, and the reception he received at the precinct was one of the few things from the days after the deaths of his fellow officers that would forever stand out clearly in his memory. A small number of people, his sergeant among them, approached him to spend a few seconds sharing their pain and to apprise him of the temporary patrol protocols that had been put in place. The rest, however, barely glanced at him as he prepared to hit the streets. It confused him at first – he was usually popular amongst his fellow officers, so the lack of greetings was odd – but he wrote it off as a combination of grief, some blame towards him over Josh's presence in the field, and the fact that police work never stopped.

His theory was challenged when he met up with Bob Smedley. Emergency procedures called for no one to go out on shift alone, and with his usual partner out of town he'd been assigned to Bob for the short-term. The quiet certainty with which the older officer went about his job had always reminded Dick of Alfred, and he wasn't unhappy to hear that they would be together today. "Hey," he said quietly as he drew up to him. "I'm ready when you are."

Smedley cast a cautious glance in his direction. "...You sure?"

"Well...yeah? As much as anyone can be, I guess." Bruce had asked him the same question at least three times that morning, and his answer had been the same. Even if he had wanted to, he couldn't have brought himself to call out or duck patrol some other way. Not when there was already a body laying in the city morgue because of a last-minute schedule change. "People are counting on us to be out there."

"Yeah. People _are_ counting on us." Then, with another odd look, Smedley pushed away from the wall he'd been leaning against. "Let's go, then."

"...Hey, Bob?" Dick broached in the car a few minutes later.

"Huh."

"Um...look, maybe I'm really misreading this, but...I feel like you're mad at me for something." He'd thought he'd managed to explain away the weird vibes at the station, but the stony silence of the few blocks they'd traveled so far was making him question his logic. Bob wasn't a big sharer, but he _did_ like to get others talking; for that habit to be neglected today struck Dick as being something more than mourning could account for.

There was a sigh from the passenger seat, and he knew he'd hit the target. "Where were you yesterday, Grayson?" came a flat question.

"What? I...I went home," he answered. "I went to be with my family."

"Your family."

"Um...yeah."

"But not us. Not your police family."

"I...Bob, I-" _I needed Bruce,_ he frowned. _What's wrong with that?_

"Look, no one blames you for the schedule change, okay?" Smedley cut him off. "Well, maybe a couple do, but that's just because they're confused and think hating on someone will make them feel better. The rest of us know it wasn't your fault. But kid...you should have been here yesterday, afterwards, I mean. Almost everybody else dropped what they were doing and came to work, but not you."

The guilt of abandoning his co-workers heaped onto the regret he was already carrying about Josh taking his place on patrol the previous morning. It was almost too much to bear, and he had to bite his lip to keep it from trembling. "...I needed to go home," he whispered a weak defense. "You don't understand..."

"I don't understand, huh? Let me tell you something, Grayson; this is the sixth time someone from my precinct has been killed in the line of duty. Six times in less than twenty years. None of those deaths have been easy, but the one thing that's always made coping possible is the way we all come together for each other. _All_ of us, Grayson. It doesn't matter that this was the first time people you had worked with died; you should have come to us. _We_ were the family that needed you yesterday, and you didn't show. There's no way your dad or whoever else has a better understanding of what happened and how it makes you feel than the men and women you work with do. You should have come to us."

There was nothing Dick could say in the face of that cold diatribe, but there was plenty that he wanted to. Bruce had more experience than either of them in losing brothers-in-arms, he ached to inform Smedley. Bruce was the only person in the world who could all but read his mind and know exactly how he was feeling and how to make it better. Others could say all they wanted about the fact that he wasn't to blame for Josh's death; Bruce was the only one who stood a chance of making him believe it someday. Bruce had been the one he'd needed, so he'd gone to Bruce.

To say any of that would be to open a can of worms that might very well contain the seeds of an unmasking, however, so he restrained himself. "...So what, I'm a...a pariah now?" he questioned instead, the road growing fuzzy through his unshed tears. "That's why everyone ignored me back there, is because I went where Ineeded to go rather than where everyone else thought I should?"

"It's a question of solidarity, Grayson," was growled back.

There, perhaps, lay the crux of the matter. Dick loved his job, loved his fellow officers, loved the ideals they fought for shoulder-to-shoulder. The department was massively important to him, and he would die for it or any of its members without a second thought. However, that didn't make it his first love. That position would always be held by his mask and the man who had given it to him. In second stood his comrades in the broader crusade for justice, people he had been in union with for seven times the number of years that he had worn the uniform of the BPD. Only below that was there room for the fraternity that Smedley wanted him to put first, and while third place in his heart was nothing to scoff at he knew it wasn't enough. Not at times like this, and not to men who treasured their badge the way he did his mask.

Again, though, that was all unspeakable information. "...Will it pass, at least?" he inquired, looking for the light at the end of the tunnel. "How long before people stop hating me for doing what I felt I had to do?"

"I don't know. It depends on the person, I guess."

"Well how long until _you_ stop hating me, then?" He had no doubt that Bob would have his back in a crisis regardless of his personal feelings, but it would be nice to know if he'd have to spend the rest of the emergency protocols period riding with an icy brick wall for a partner.

"...I don't hate you, Grayson. I think you made a dumb-fuck decision yesterday, and I don't blame some of the others for holding it against you, but I don't hate you. I will say this, though; you better make sure you're at the funeral procession tomorrow. You miss that after missing yesterday and you'll end up the loneliest man in the department. You wouldn't be the first I'd seen it happen to, either, so that's not a threat. Just a warning. Got it?"

"Got it," he grimaced. He'd had every intention of going to the public mourning event the following day, but knowing that his reputation depended on his presence made it all the more crucial. "I was going to be there anyway."

"...Good."

* * *

He made good on his promise the following day. Bruce, sensitive to the fact that his son tended to keep quiet about who had raised him and wary lest his appearance divert the media's attention from the true focus of the event, parked a few blocks away from the route and said he'd stay in the car. Thus it was that Dick found himself weaving through the already-tight crowds by himself, heading towards a few blue-clothed specks on the corner. If he was to be held accountable for whether or not he was here today, he thought, then he was going to make damn sure that the right people saw him.

Smedley spotted him first. "Grayson," he nodded curtly.

"Hey." There were three others with his temporary partner, only one of whom attempted to give him anything other than a disinterested glance. Sensing that he wasn't welcome in their group but not willing to go in search of others and end up being accused of having left, he took a position a short distance away. This way, he swallowed, he wouldn't be able to hear if they started talking about him and they wouldn't be able to honestly say they'd lost sight of him.

Thirty impossible minutes ticked by. The audience continued to swell in number, pressing against the barricades, standing atop the cars parked in side streets, and leaning out of windows. Strangely, the noise level didn't give away the size of the gathering, remaining at a low hum despite the thousands of attendees. Dick swept the assembly with his eyes automatically despite not being on duty, well aware that there were elements of Bludhaven's underworld who would take a solemn occasion like this one as an invitation to cause havoc. Nothing sinister appeared, however; all he saw was the citizenry of his city, gathered now to remind him and every other law enforcement official present of why they did what they did.

A wave of unearthly silence swept through the masses without warning. Ten city blocks, swollen with humanity of all ages and colors, went so quiet that the air itself seemed to stop moving. No birds crossed between the rooftops overhead; no dogs barked; no children cried. The sun slipped behind a cloud, and in that surreal instant the first cruiser rounded the corner onto the procession's main straightaway.

The cavalcade crawled along, and while its slow speed was intended to allow more people to see the horse-drawn caskets of the fallen officers it did nothing but draw out the pain for Dick. He stood stock-still, frozen in place and staring blindly as the vehicles rolled by. Josh's bier drew even with him, and he closed his eyes, unable to stand the sight. When he looked again it had gone on, leaving only the twin tear trails on his cheeks as evidence of its passage. _...I'm so sorry, Josh. I'm so...so sorry._

Twenty minutes later things were breaking up, the still-hushed residents of Bludhaven filtering away back into their lives. Dick turned stiffly away from the path death had just walked and began to make his way towards where Bruce was waiting, trying not to stumble after having his knees locked for so long.

"Grayson!" a call stopped him.

He turned to find Smedley watching him go. "Yeah?" he asked hoarsely.

"We're all going to the precinct now. You coming?"

It was another warning, he knew, and at the same time that he appreciated it he hated it. The last thing he wanted to do was try and deal with his personal grief in the midst of people who were shunning him, but if that was the only way he could work his way out of the no-man's-land he'd been cast into... He sighed. Bruce would understand, and if it proved to be too much he supposed he could always leave and be in no worse of a position than if he didn't go at all. "...Yeah. I'm coming."

The two who hadn't spoken to him before exchanged a look, but Bob merely nodded. "Good. See you there."

The next thing he knew he was dropping into the passenger seat of the low-end luxury car Bruce had chosen as camouflage. "I have to go to the precinct for a little while," he moaned, closing his eyes once the door was shut.

"Why?"

"...Solidarity."

"You don't sound like you particularly _want_ to go."

"I...I don't know, Bruce. I just...have to." He paused. "If you have stuff to do, it's okay. You can just drop me off and I'll take a taxi home, or something."

"No," the billionaire replied, his tone making it clear that such a thing was out of the question. "No. If you need to go to your precinct, then that's where I'll take you. I can wait outside there just as easily as here. I'll call Alfred and tell him to hold dinner for us. And speaking of Alfred..." Craning around, Bruce reached into the back seat. "Here. He thought you might need these after...well, after."

Dick looked down to find a bag with three of the butler's biggest, best double-chocolate-chip cookies being offered to him. "Aw, Alfred," he felt his throat tighten as he took them, "your cookies make everything better..." _Even social ostracism,_ he added mirthlessly to himself.

"...Dick?"

"Yeah?"

"Is there something going on that you're not telling me?"

He started. "And you say Alfred's the one with the witchcraft," a lame joke escaped his lips.

"I've seen you grieve enough times before to know when there's another element involved in your sadness."

"So not witchcraft," he sighed. "Just love. Damn that stuff, anyway."

"...Is it something I can help with?"

"No. I wish it was, but...it isn't. Anyway, I...I don't want to talk about it right now, okay? Maybe later, but...not now. There's too many other things going on, and there's nothing you can do to fix it."

"And it's nothing I need to be worried about, right?"

He could read the real question beneath the words – was he going to do anything stupid like hurt himself, or worse? – and he shook his head at it. "No," he swore, gripping the broad hand on the center console reassuringly. "I'll be okay, Bruce."

"Are you still blaming yourself for what happened?"

"Not...not as much. A little still, but...it's getting better."

"Good."

The relief in the man's voice was palpable, and Dick smiled. At least he'd managed to make_ one_ person happy with him today. "...You want a cookie for the road?" he asked, holding out the open bag. "I don't mind sharing."

"No, chum," Bruce refused. "I'd say you've more than earned the right to keep those to yourself. Even if you hadn't, I think you need them far more than I do. After all," he squeezed his fingers before pulling back to start the car, "you have to go to your precinct."

Giving a half-laugh, half-sob at that, Dick broke a chunk off of the first cookie. "Witchcraft," he muttered.

"...No, chum," the billionaire repeated. "The other thing."

"Love?"

"Yeah."

"I like that reason better."

"Me, too. Now eat your cookies."

He settled back in his seat, exhausted but somehow feeling lighter than he had since Friday morning. "...You got it, dad."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: I'm putting an extra warning on this chapter for the large amounts of swearing that occur. Just FYI.**

* * *

A week after Bludhaven lost two of her finest, Dick's life had begun to settle back down into its old rhythm. He had stopped commuting from Gotham on Wednesday, and Nightwing had patrolled his streets again that same night. There'd been a guard duty opening along with Red Robin at the Watchtower yesterday evening, so he'd used that as an opportunity to have a little time alone with his brother. Then today Bruce had taken an extended lunch and ventured across the river to buy him a burger before his mid-shifts, which would carry him through the weekend, started.

If he could have gotten rid of the ache in his stomach and the grimaces on the faces of his co-workers, he might have been able to pretend that the last seven days had been nothing more than a bad dream.

There was nothing he could do for either situation other than wait things out, though, so he went about his business without complaining. The ban on solo patrols had been lifted the day before, and while he could have asked to continue having Smedley as his temporary partner without incurring any shame he had demurred. Bob had begun acting more normal towards him after the hour Dick had spent sitting soundlessly at his desk following the funeral procession, but he still felt as if the older officer was watching his every move. It was distracting as hell, so today he opted to slip out of the precinct lot with no one in the passenger seat beside him.

He'd been cruising and decompressing for almost an hour when a call came in that piqued his interest. Two different people had called 911 about a drunken man wielding a knife and making threats that were racial in nature. Conveniently, the complaints had come from a building a mere three blocks away. Picking up the radio, he acknowledged the dispatch and flipped on his lights.

The apartment block whose address matched the one he'd been given appeared quiet from the street. He stepped into the lobby, paused, then shook his head. "Oh, yeah, buddy," he commented as he approached the unconscious figure snoring on a bench. "You're drunk as a skunk."

"He smells like one, too," a woman stuck her head out of a nearby door. "Officer, you get him out of here. My kids'll be home soon, they don't need to see that."

"I agree," Dick nodded as he stopped a few feet away from the reeking body. "Are you one of the people who called in about him?"

"Yessir. He was waving a knife and yelling all sorts of nasty things. Indecent things."

"Is this the knife you saw?" He nudged a dull, pitted blade with his boot, separating it from its owner.

"Mmhmm. That's the one."

"Did he talk about other weapons, or did you see any?"

"I didn't hang around long enough to find out. I just brought my groceries inside and locked my door. You be careful now," she lectured as he closed the distance to the intoxicated man. "My kids ain't needing to see no dead cops, neither. Had enough of those around here lately."

He shuddered, but said nothing further to her as he went about his work. If the fellow before him wasn't blacked out, then he was the best actor Dick had ever seen. He rolled him over cautiously anyway, wary of anything extra he might be packing. "Hey!" he called sharply when a basic pat-down revealed nothing other than a mostly-empty flask of cheap vodka. "Hey, guy! BPD! Rise and shine, friend."

"Maaaaaaahmph!" came a labored protest.

"You don't say," he replied in a conversational tone. "Hey, buddy, let's go. Wake on up."

"Meeeerg..."

"Damn it, I don't want my kids to see this!"

"I'm going just as fast as I can, ma'am," he called over his shoulder. If the man had started the day with a wallet, he'd either lost it or had it stolen since. "Do you know his name, by any chance?"

"The hell if I associate with someone like that! What kind of person do you think I am?!"

"All right, no offense meant." He gave him a final shake. When it drew nothing but another inarticulate protest, he sighed and stepped back to bag the knife. "I'm going to have to call an ambulance for him. I can't transport him like this."

"You're gonna let my babies see that?!"

"I don't have a choice, ma'am. I'm sorry."

At that moment there was a cacophony of young voices just outside. Three children, none of them over the age of ten, tumbled into the lobby together, laughing. "Whoooa!" what looked to be the oldest one exclaimed. "There's a _cop _here!"

"Cool!" his little sister cried.

"You kids get in here this instant!" their mother ordered. "Ain't no need for you to be lookin' at that."

"Awww," two voices chorused. The sound of shuffling feet indicated that they were moving quickly enough to avoid a swat but at a slow enough pace to ensure they got an eyeful to whisper about later. Glancing between his drunken charge and the children, Dick almost grinned.

"...Hey, mister officer?"

The eldest boy hadn't moved from where he'd stopped just inside the exterior door. "What's up, pal?" Dick asked kindly.

"Damn it, Christopher, didn't I tell you-"

"I know that man," the child said, nodding towards the inebriate. "His name's Mr. Elroy Newton. He lives down the street, in the blue building. On the third floor."

His mother had fallen silent, her eyes narrowing as she stared at her son. Around her peeked her younger offspring, who were sending their brother jealous glares as if they wished that _they_ had known that the snorting, stinking stranger in the hall was actually their neighbor.

"...Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir. He hangs out his window sometimes and yells at us kids for playing on the sidewalks. Once he threw something at us and it almost hit my friend Deion. Deion's mama was maaaaad, but she wouldn't go yell at Mr. Elroy Newton. She said he's bad news, so she just kept cursin' him and saying his name. 'Damn that Elroy Newton,' she said, 'god damn that Elroy Newton." He paused, smirking at the fact that he'd gotten to swear twice without his mother being able to say anything about it. "...Are you gonna take him away?"

"That's the plan. Elroy Newton, right?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Elroy Newton, just like Deion's mama said."

"Okay, great. Thanks." He arched an eyebrow. "You've got a good memory. I bet you'd make a pretty good cop some day with a memory like that."

The little girl in the doorway giggled shrilly at that, while her mother merely harrumphed and crossed her arms.

"...You think so?" the boy asked, his face shining with pride.

"Heck, yes. I'll tell you what," he pulled out one of his cards, "you take this. If you remember anything else about Mr. Newton, or if someone else chucks something at you, you feel free to give me a call. Okay?"

"Sure, mister officer!" He all but leaped for the square of pale paper. "Thanks!"

"You bet, pal."

"_Christopher_," an imperative was issued. Wincing, the child shot Dick a final twinkling look and then dashed into his house. His mother snatched the card from him handily as he dove by. Ignoring the immediate protest that this raised from all three of her children, she closed the door with a muttered protest. "Ain't nobody making my baby into an informer..."

Sighing as that brief moment of happiness drained away, Dick turned back to his problem. "Well hello, Mr. Newton," he greeted when he found a pair of blood-shot eyes attempting to focus on him. "Nice to have you back in the land of the wakeful."

"...Wazzit?" Glaring, the man tried to push himself into a sitting position.

"Take it easy, there. Do you know where you are?"

"...P'lice."

"Yes, I'm with the police. Do you know why I'm here, Mr. Newton? Do you remember anything about a knife, and maybe some threats?"

"'Kyou."

It was either a sneeze or a swear, but the so-called Mr. Newton was too far gone for it be clear which he'd meant. Dick let it go. "Okay, well, I'm afraid you're going to have to come with me. Can you stand up and turn around?" He got nothing but a stony silence as an answer. "...How about if I help you?" No response. "All right, helping you it is."

Newton didn't fight as he was lifted and cuffed. He stumbled every other step on his way to the car, but Dick steadied him until he was safely in the back seat. "You okay in there?" he asked just before he shut the door.

"...'kyou."

"I'll take that as a yes. Sit tight for a second, would you? I'll be right back."

It took him only a minute to give the other 911 caller his card. When he returned to the cruiser he found Newton still awake and vaguely upright. "All right, first stop's the hospital," he informed him. "...Anything you want to get off your chest now? Maybe been smoking a little weed, or doing something harder?" The man didn't seem to be anything other than extremely drunk, but it wouldn't have been the first time that a simple question had revealed a cocktail of something other than alcohol in an arrestee's system. Again, though, there was no answer. "...Okay, guy. Your choice."

The next hour and a half passed quietly. There was a line for checks at the hospital, as usual, so Dick sat Newton down to wait. A few other officers with drunkards or druggies of their own came in, but none, thankfully, were from his precinct. The uniformed figures all exchanged nods and a bit of commentary with each new arrival. A couple of the people who had been brought in to be cleared seemed to want to start a ruckus, but in both cases it took only a look around at the blue tinge to the room's occupants to calm them right back down.

That was how things stayed until Newton was called. He'd had plenty of time to start sobering up, and Dick helped him to his feet with greater caution than before. "Your turn, friend," he advised.

"Fuck you."

This time there was no question about whether or not the man was cursing or coughing. Still, it was hardly the thousandth time that someone he'd put in cuffs had thrown an f-bomb at him, so he treated it lightly. "Better be nicer than that to the nurses," he warned, guiding his charge towards the exam room. "I know I'm always nice to people who are about to poke me with needles."

"Fuck you, cop."

"Just relax, Mr. Newton."

"Fuck you." He stopped in the doorway and turned his head until Dick could see one eye glimmering over his shoulder. "Fuck you and all your buddies, too. Fuck _all _y'all. And fuck those two what got their dumb asses shot last week. They was cops, and they got what they _deserved_. What _all_ of you motherfuckers deserve."

Even the cracked-out streetwalker who hadn't stopped humming since she'd been brought in suddenly went silent as a pall of disbelief fell over everyone present. A passing orderly stopped in the middle of the hall, his mouth hanging so far open that his fillings were visible. Overhead the PA speaker crackled, then receded as if it sensed that this was a bad time. If a pin had been dropped in the waiting room at that moment, the sound of it hitting the linoleum would have echoed.

Dick's vision went red at the edges, and in that instant he imagined he knew what Batman saw some nights as he viewed the world through his cowl. He could feel the tension rising behind him as a dozen people, half of them wearing uniforms identical to his own, waited to see what would happen next. _...This isn't me,_ he told himself as his muscles trembled. _This man is still drunk no matter how smart his mouth has gotten, and this rage...this isn't me._ "...Mr. Newton," he managed, his voice coming out so much lower than usual that his throat would ache for days, "you need to walk forward, sit down on the bed, and do whatever the nurse tells you to do."

For a second it seemed like the fool might argue. Then the gravity of the situation seemed to catch up with him, and he turned his face forward and hung his head. Without so much as another syllable, he did as he'd been told.

Dick called out to the gaping orderly who was still staring after him. "Please have someone else who was not just in this room come in," he requested, biting off each word.

"Uh...okay, but...w-why?"

"...Because if the nurse has to leave, I don't trust myself alone with him," he explained slowly. "Please have someone else who was not just in this room come in."

"I'll...I'll get somebody." With that he took off, his face pale as he jogged away.

"Thank you," Dick muttered, and shut the door.

He stood in the corner as Newton was cleared, keeping his hands clasped behind his back so that no one could see the thin crescents of blood welling up where he was pressing his fingernails into his palms. "Is he good to go?" he ground out when they'd finished.

"He's nowhere near sober, but he's functional enough to be released."

"Did you note any bruises or other marks on him?"

"...No. There were none to note."

"Please note that, then."

"Um...okay." A few scribbles later, the nurse looked up. "Done. He's good to go."

"Would you please escort us to my car," he half-ordered the x-ray technician who had been snagged from his break to stand witness.

"Sure," the man shrugged. "I was on my way out for a cigarette anyway."

"Thank you." With a barely-controlled twitch threatening to erupt under one eye, he took Newton back from the medical staff and headed straight for the parking lot. Afraid that he might catch a glimpse of encouragement in the mien of one of his still-waiting fellow officers and lose his control, he glanced neither left nor right as he passed them.

Neither of them spoke once they were both on their respective sides of the barrier and rolling towards jail. Dick peeked at the back seat only once in the rear view mirror, and was gratified to see that Newton was sweating profusely, as if he was in fear. His grim pleasure turned to disgust when the man leaned forward a few turns later and vomited on the floor, filling the car with the rank odor that was specific to the gullets of chronic hard drinkers. Without letting so much as a hint of the roiling his own stomach was now doing show on his face, he lowered the front passenger window and apologized silently to every person they passed on the sidewalk.

He fetched two men out of the jailhouse to take Newton inside, still unable to risk walking him the short distance to the door without supervision. His vision had cleared somewhat as he'd navigated Bludhaven's rush hour traffic, but there was no point in taking chances. After what had been said, he knew he wouldn't be able to stop swinging once he'd landed the first blow on the sneering lips that were now dotted with dried sputum.

"Wait," he stopped the in-processing officers just before they took their prisoner through a gate. "Hold on a second."

"...Something wrong?" one asked.

"I just want to say something." He turned to the man who had so sorely tested his self-control. "Newton?"

"What you want, cop?"

"...Quit throwing things at kids playing outside your window. Got it?" It was far from his most serious crime, but it was the only one Dick thought he might be willing to stop doing on the basis of his injunction alone.

The drunkard stared at him for a long second. "...Suppose they ain't doin' nothing wrong, so much," he replied grudgingly.

"Good. Thanks, guys," he nodded to the guards.

"Yup. See you next go-around." The grate shut behind them, and Newton was gone, entrusted to people who had no idea about the comments he had made a short while earlier.

It was only once he was back in his car that Dick let out an endless-seeming breath. Gripping the steering wheel, he lowered his head to the airbag panel and let the cool, beveled plastic draw some of his heat away. "...God damn you, indeed, Elroy Newton," he whispered, a few tears slipping down to drip from his chin. "God damn you, indeed."

He straightened slowly and wiped his cheeks dry. His stomach ached from being clenched, there was a crust of his own blood beneath his fingernails, and it would take at least three shampooings to get the rancid odor of half-digested vodka out of the back carpet, but he didn't care. Somehow, he marveled, he had held onto himself, and while there had been no respect in Newton's eyes as he'd been turned away there _had_ been something approaching caution. He might not have stood up for his comrades' names with his fists, but he'd defended them with honor and justice nonetheless. It was, he thought, the sort of thing he hoped Josh would have done had their situations been reversed.

As he started the car a second later, the first real smile that had graced his features in a week appeared and settled into its familiar place. The pain in his chest remained still, but it slipped back a bit under the power of his pride. It would keep going, he knew, maybe not quickly or easily, but steadily. It had to; he had a job to do, and a reputation that went beyond himself to uphold. No matter what anyone else said or did, he swore as he pulled into traffic and headed for the station, he would uphold the values that so many others had fought and, in some cases, died for on the streets of Bludhaven. It was their legacy, and as he reflected on the boy's – Christopher, he recalled – bright, shining face earlier that afternoon he hoped that it might be his legacy someday, too.


	4. Epilogue

**Author's Note: Here's a short epilogue to wrap things up. Thank you all for reading and reviewing! There will be more 'Camp Batman' tomorrow for those of you who are following that, and I will probably do some more 'Summer Shorts' pieces and maybe a new 'Spot of Tea' in between. Happy reading!**

* * *

Bruce looked up at the sound of light, familiar footsteps crossing the cave behind him. "Dick?" he queried as he turned. "What are you doing here, chum?" _You never come home when you're on mid-shifts,_ he frowned to himself. _What's wrong __now__?_

"What, have you had enough of me this last week or something?"

"No, of course I didn't mean-" He stopped, realizing that the younger man's comment had been made in jest. "You seem...better," he remarked instead. His eldest looked better, too, he decided as he studied him. There were still dark marks – evidence of many sleepless nights – at the tops of his cheeks, but the eyes above them held a trace of the old merriment that had been missing since the previous Friday. Bruce took it as a good sign.

"I...feel better," Dick nodded, sitting beside him. "Not, like, a hundred percent or anything-"

"No, of course not."

"-but better. A...a _lot_ better."

"Did something happen, or...?"

"Yeah, you could say that." A glance was thrown at the documents sitting before the billionaire. "It will wait, though. I didn't mean to interrupt you, I just wanted to let you know I was here."

"No, tell me," he insisted, shutting the folder. "I was about done anyway." The truth of the matter was that he hadn't gotten much of anywhere with the case file during the several hours he'd been staring down at it. His thoughts had been preoccupied with the man now reclining at his side, and if there was news from that quarter he wanted to hear it. "What happened since lunch?"

"Well..."

Leaning back, Bruce listened as Dick related the details of his encounter with one Mr. Elroy Newman. "...What an asshole," he winced when the tale seemed to be over.

"Heh. Yeah, that's about right."

"It sounds like you handled him perfectly," he added, bowled over by the incredible self-control that keeping cool with such an uncouth specimen of humanity must have required. "I'm impressed, Dick. Beyond impressed."

The happy, bashful smile he adored appeared. "Thanks."

"So that's what made you feel better about...things...then?"

"That, and...something else." Bruce, it transpired, was not the only person who had been pleased with his performance in the field. Two of the other officers who had been in the hospital waiting room that afternoon had made a special effort to find out which precinct Dick was assigned to, and had then placed praise-filled calls to his sergeant. "I was more than a little scared when he called me back into his office after I finished scrubbing the car out," he confessed as he told the story. "I thought I was in trouble for something. I mean...you know things haven't been so hot at work since...since last week."

"Yeah, I know." Dick had finally told him about the attitudes of his co-workers on Monday night, after another shift full of cold shoulders had left him drained and pale. He hadn't been happy to hear about it, but there was nothing he could do to remedy the problem. "Did it help, then? That phone call?"

"I don't know yet – this all just happened a few hours ago – but I think it might. Word about stuff like that always gets around, and...well, my sergeant knows how it is right now. He might take steps to make _sure_ that people hear about it. Not that I want to brag or anything, but...it would be nice to have some of my friends back, you know?"

Bruce held his tongue, sensing that this wasn't the right time to mention that the sort of friends he deserved ought not to have shunned him to begin with. "Sure," he simply agreed.

"Anyway...he said he's going to do a little more research, talk to the guys at the jail and the orderlies at the hospital, and then probably put a letter of commendation in my file." He blushed. "I don't know why that makes me feel better. It shouldn't, you know? I mean...to be happy about something that only came about because of..." He paused. "They were just doing their jobs, the same as I was just doing mine, but I'm getting a pat on the back and they got headstones. It...it doesn't seem right, not in the least. But it still makes me glad." Picking up a pen, he fiddled with it, not meeting Bruce's gaze. "I can't help but feel that way in spite of the unfairness of the situation."

"There's nothing wrong with that, Dick. There's not," he assured when their eyes met again. "It's tragic that they died doing their jobs, but that fact shouldn't deter you from taking pride in having done yours, and under such trying circumstances at that. You have every right to be happy about that commendation, because you earned it. If it's any consolation," he gripped his wrist lightly, "I doubt that they would have wanted you to feel anything different right now. Like you said, they were doing their jobs the same as you were doing yours; in that case, how could they possibly hold this against you?"

"...They wouldn't."

"So then what's the point in feeling bad about it? Or, as the case may be, in feeling bad for not feeling bad?"

"I think we're getting into semantic quandaries here," Dick smirked.

"I think we are, too," Bruce chuckled back. "So can we just agree that you don't need to feel guilty about being glad that you're receiving a commendation for doing your job?"

"It _is_ a much more pleasant award than a headstone."

The billionaire flinched. "...Yes. Yes, it is." _Bring me all the letters you want, baby_, he swallowed hard, _but don't you __ever__ bring me home a headstone with your name on it. Please... _

For a moment neither man spoke. Then Dick took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh, and looked around as if he was missing something. "Where's Dami?" he asked.

"Upstairs with a cold."

"Oof. No patrol for sick birds. Poor kid."

"He was his usual pleasant self about it, of course," Bruce grimaced.

"So he's grounded now, too?"

"...I wasn't quite that cruel, although if he keeps letting Alfred hear him curse like he did he's going to end up with a mouthful of suds."

"Ugh." Dick shuddered. "The old soap treatment. I'll talk to him before I have to go to work tomorrow."

"You're staying the night?" A little flare of joy filled him. He treasured any time he spent with his son, but it wasn't quite the same when he was miserable. He'd been longing for a few hours of normalcy all week, and was prepared to leap on the opportunity now.

"I figured I would, since I'm here. Are you going out? It's kind of late; I was surprised when Alfred said you were still here."

"I was chasing a paper trail, but it didn't take me anywhere," he shared as he rose and stretched. "We have time for a half patrol, if you're up for it."

"Is Tim out and about?"

"Mm-hm. We'll radio him from the car, see if he wants to meet up. Sound good?"

"Sounds great."

"Then go get dressed. I'll be in after I put this file away."

"Yup!"

He watched him head towards the changing area with a hint of his characteristic spring in his step. _That's my boy_, he smiled after him. _Shove him down, and he bounces back higher than before._ If more men were lucky enough to have such sons, he reflected as he gathered his paperwork, then maybe fewer parents would end up crying silently over cemetery plots. Until such a day came, though, people like Dick and his fallen comrades would hold the line against lawlessness and insanity. That, indeed, was something to be proud of.

Bruce knew he was.


End file.
